Masters of Horror

by Lee Pletzers

  She never expected a broken hip to hurt quite as much as it did, but as her father used to say, “You can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs.”

  Police and an ambulance were summoned and Lucinda played the incident for all it was worth.

  And to make matters worse, poor Mr. Foley had whiskey on his breath. He had downed a shot that morning to treat a heavy cold. Back home in Ireland, that was how it was done, and had always worked well for him.

  This time, it worked well for Lucinda. She sued him for everything he had, and by the time the case was settled, she owned his joint bank account, his truck, his wife’s car, and their house and everything in it. Oh, also Charlie’s savings that he planned to use for college.

  When she was being wheeled out of court that day, Charlie Foley walked up to her and spit on the ground at her feet.

  She never saw him again after that.

  But she’d won, and soon she’d have plenty of cash to get that final procedure done, once the Foley assets were liquidated, and that was the whole point, wasn’t it?

  By the time she’d recovered from her “accident” and sold off everything the Foleys had, there was more than enough money to cover the next procedure.

  “You want a colostomy? Why?”

  “I have a predisposition for colon cancer. It runs in my family. So, no colon, no colon cancer. It’s one less thing to worry about.”

  “Are you aware that you’ll have to wear a colostomy bag for the rest of your life?”

  Lucinda flashed her perfect white teeth at the man. “I understand. I still want it done. Will you do it?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  This time, it took months before she found a willing doctor. He seemed a little sketchy and his credentials weren’t the best, but he was ready to operate the next day, so the deal was sealed.

  This surgery took everything she had to pay for—or, rather, everything the Foley’s had had. Lucinda heard that they were living in a shelter downtown, and that Charlie’s job at the grocery store was all that was feeding and clothing them. But, Lucinda reasoned, they had a roof, a bed, and food, so what more could they ask for?

  Lucinda was finally happy, finally satisfied. She had eliminated all the cancer risks that ran in her family and threatened her to take her life and therefore, her beauty, away from her. She stared into the mirror for hours on end, secure in the knowledge that, with regular surgical maintenance, she would be looking this way for a long, long time to come.

  The food stamps, social security, and disability checks she was now collecting from the government covered food, her new mortgage, and miscellaneous other bills.

  She never left the house.

  Why should she? Who out there would appreciate her beauty as much as she did? Better to stay home.

  Things were wonderful for many months—until the phone call.

  Her father’s last remaining brother had died.

  Lucinda panicked.

  She had no more money left.

  The 9-1-1 call came in later that afternoon from Charlie Foley, who had come by to deliver Lucinda’s groceries.

  The police found her on her bathroom floor in a pool of her own blood.

  “She peeled off her skin. Got as far as her waist before she died of shock and blood loss,” the M.E. said. “But her face and neck are untouched. She’ll be a good looking corpse once she’s dressed.”

  “Damnedest suicide I ever saw in my whole life,” Officer Donnelly said to the M.E. “Was there a note or anything?”

  “Yeah. She’s looking right at it. It’s a weird one. All I can figure is that it was supposed to remind her about something while she was…doing this.” The M.E., who had seen more horror in his professional life than he cared to talk about, shuddered over this latest one.

  Donnelly followed the body’s vacant gaze. Indeed, there was a note, of sorts, that she’d taped up to the tiles directly opposite her line of sight. She must have been looking at it right up until the moment she died.

  One less thing to worry about!

  Liked Carson’s Story? Check out her latest title:

  Home

  Following the deaths of her mother and beloved aunt, Kate Kavanagh inherits the family homestead in the Irish enclave of Three Oaks, Connecticut; but the house has changed since she visited a year ago—no more windows on the first floor and gaslights and a wood burning stove in place of the modern appliances. It also appears to be haunted. And that's just for starters. Once she moves into the house, Kate herself begins a gradual but terrifying biological transformation that is part of her inheritance, too; though not mentioned in the Will. With the help of a Rottweiler that's more human than animal, a new friend whose farm stand is only open dusk to dawn, and the "Rat Boys," Kate will get some answers or die trying.

  Back to TOC

  As it happens, there are addictions that are somewhat positive…at least when compared to most others. Even though obsession almost radiates from this particular protagonist, this one made me want to jump back into a gym…and get…

  Shredded

  By Blaze McRob

  It is time. The iron calls me.

  The digital clock next to my bed spells out 1:59 in bright red letters. Perfect. Once again, I wake before the alarm goes off.

  I can’t remember the last time it sounded. Probably, there would be no need to set it, but the fear of oversleeping, of missing my encounter with the destiny of the day, forces me to continue with the ritual.

  Except for the alarm clock numbers, my bedroom is completely dark: just the way I like it. This is my house. I live alone and don’t have to cater to anyone else’s needs or wants. My sense of purpose, compulsion, and desires, preclude me from allowing anyone else to venture into my world. It is mine and mine alone.

  I dress in the dark, pulling my clothing from its allotted space on top of the ottoman adjacent to the lone chair in the room, a weathered, brown Lazy Boy. There is no need for unnecessary furniture to clutter up my existence. Books and magazines go on bookshelves and my furniture sits in a neat, orderly fashion against the walls, allowing an open expansiveness to my environment.

  As usual, I made coffee last night and I plop it into the microwave to heat it up as I finish my preparations. From the refrigerator, I withdraw two bottles of a thirty-two gram protein drink; thirty-two grams is the maximum amount of protein the body can absorb at a time. Fully dressed, my thick drink in hand, I walk out my front door into the quiet morning, enjoying the bite in the air. It helps to prepare me for what’s coming, and I smile in anticipation of what lies ahead.

  It doesn’t take long to walk the four blocks to the gym. I stare at the unique design of the building: the right side roof, extending forty feet into the sky, has a steep pitch before blending into the flattened design of the remainder of the structure.

  No one else is here: the parking lot is empty. The place is all mine.

  I slide my access card into the slot and enter, allowing me time to soak up the ambiance and bask in the glow of my surroundings. This is my gym: I own it and I’m proud of it. It’s my 24 hour-access piece of heaven.

  The treadmills, steppers, and bikes, are all up front by the big windows. I walk past them. My warm-up is a little different: 400 bent knee sit ups at a moderate pace. Why 400? No reason. That’s the number I’ve been doing for years. This way, I get well developed abs without the bulk. I slide my toes under one of the benches and go to town.

  My waist might be trim, but the rest...the rest is not. Thirty years of pushing the iron around has made me huge. If you slammed an oak plank across my back, said plank would break…and I’d just think it was raining.

  Today is my big day: the day of my total body workout. Every muscle in my body, worked as hard as is possible to push a muscle to the very brink, to the precipice of maximum potential usage versus the possibility of exceeding what should be attainable. Go too far, and danger reaches out to grab you, snapping your tendons as if they are overstretch
ed rubber bands, tearing away muscle fibers like stringy pieces of overcooked corned beef removing themselves from the main brisket, and destroying cartilage around the knees, perhaps for life. And every so often, there is the specter of bone pushing through the skin, the popping sound echoing throughout the gym, followed by cries of agony.

  The gym talks to me, daring me to reach my ultimate maximum.

  Are you man enough today? Do you dare touch the heavy iron?

  I laugh at the challenge. “I am the master. The iron is mine.”

  Still warmed up from my sit-ups, I work into my sets, starting with chest and back, alternating bench presses with chin ups, back and forth, adding weight with every set. Blood engorges the area, creating a pump of magnificent proportions. When I reach the point where I can only do six repetitions, I move on to super setting incline bench presses and one arm rows in the same manner. Exercise after exercise, always starting out with low weight and building up to mega plates, maximum poundage.

  C’mon, pussy! More weight. Don’t be a slacker.

  The veins are throbbing under my skin; skin that is so thin; no fat at all. Moisture is pouring out of me, making my skin even tighter. Every little bit of muscle jockeys for its showcase appearance within the framework of what is: a relief map of muscle, interspersed with life giving veins and arteries, feeding them, firing the mitochondria, igniting the juices, keeping the passion alive.

  Yes! This is my moment. I am shining. No light is any brighter than this.

  As much as I can, I stick with barbells and dumbbells, wanting, needing to feel the iron. No gloves. Damn, I couldn’t wear leather on my hands. It would block the sensation of taking charge; it would make me feel inferior to the weight. Fuck the calluses. I can deal with them. They’re merely purple hearts of a sort, worn on my hands to show the wages of battle. A battle hard fought and won in the trenches.

  Stop admiring your body and attack the weights. More!

  More, it is. Let those steroid junkies try to keep up with me. Natural. That’s the way to go. I don’t want a big bloated belly due to the fucking drugs increasing the size of my internal organs as well as my muscles. And as for what makes a man a man: I want to keep my dick and balls and not have them vanish, becoming the size of a well run down pencil and tiny marbles. Women like muscles on a man, but what good are muscles on a pencil-pecker? I have never had any complaints. Ever.

  Exercise after exercise, chest and back working as a team, bringing out the very best in each. My shirt gets tighter, inhibiting my efforts, getting in the way of that absolute pump. I cannot reach Valhalla like this!

  Breaking my own rule for the gym, I almost tear the confining, sweat-soaked piece of worthless cotton off my body and toss it towards my gym bag. I grab a big towel from behind the desk and place it on the benches to soak up the sweat, pouring like a turbulent river out of my body.

  From my ever-present water bottle by my side, I replenish the fluids I’m losing. My discarded shirt is caked with salt: a sure sign I need to increase the electrolytes in my mix.

  Ten different exercises each for my chest and back. Once more, I surpass what I have achieved in the past. Age: what does it matter? Even now, at the so called twilight of my years, a time when many are content to sit in a rocking chair watching the rest of the world parade before them, I am achieving personal bests. No one here believes I’m as old as I am. So I don’t tell them anymore.

  Get your 63 year old ass back to work! Power your arms. You came up short with them the last time. Asses and elbows! Now!

  Everywhere around me the equipment beckons. Try me. You know you want to flesh out your arms with me. I will make you bigger; I will make your guns too large for your shirts.

  Love talk: strange, but provocative. I can’t escape the pleadings of the dumbbells; the already set-up curling barbells; the preacher curl bench; even the cables for the polish.

  All of them. I will use them all!

  For my biceps, the preacher curls will exact some rough sets. It is difficult to cheat with them and the stress goes right to the muscle it’s intended for. To make this really tough, I will work these with reverse grip bench presses which hit the triceps in a magical way. Not many people use this wonderful exercise anymore.

  Why? Because it’s brutal; damned brutal!

  This won’t be easy. Your arms are already trashed from those sets for your chest and back. You’ll never come close to reaching maximum poundage.

  “I’LL DO IT, DAMN IT!” I roar out loud to the empty gym. No fucking voice is going to talk me out of this. Mega weight! Ultimate pump! Uncharted territory. Yes, it’ll all come together.

  My head starts spinning from the effort. All my blood is going to my arms now, leaving precious little for anything else. Focus: I have to maintain focus. Everything is starting to blur, causing the line between reality and uncertainty to waver. I plunk myself down on the bench and prepare to tackle a personal record for my reverse grip bench press. All I need is enough time for my faculties to sharpen up.

  There can be no room for error; if I misjudge with this last set, I’m so screwed. By all rights, I should have a spotter, but I don’t.

  The lift off is a bit shaky; not a good sign. However, my first four reps go smoothly. The fifth rep is okay, albeit not as powerful as the rest.

  One rep left; one stinking rep and I’ll be riding a wave of euphoria.

  I lower the bar to my chest with perfect control: slow and steady. Now is the time for an explosion of power at the bottom, but...

  But there is no explosion. The bar stalls, refusing to go up.

  Shit! I’m in some serious stuff now. I’ve lost all momentum with the bar. It’s starting to exert pressure on my chest. Breathing is becoming more difficult.

  Panic sets in.

  I’m stuck; and I’m alone. It will probably be an hour at least before anyone comes in. No way can I hold the weight for that long. My arms would give out and the weight would crush my chest.

  And if I was to shift the bar to one side, allowing the weights to slide off, with as many plates as are on the bar, the other side could whip around and take me with it. I’ve seen it happen before—with nasty consequences.

  Now you’ve done it! Fucked yourself over real good this time. You had to go for that last rep, didn’t you? You couldn’t be content with five reps. No, you had to do six. And now...well, just look at you. You either lift this bar one more time, or you’re a crushed piece of meat welcoming your clientele in a short time. Yeah, by then your eyes will be bulging out of their sockets, blood will be pouring from your mouth, and your body will be a disgusting mix of blue and gray. It’ll make great word-of-mouth advertising, too. Nice job.

  How long can this weight stay like this? How soon before my breath is completely gone?

  How much time do I have before my breastplate breaks and my ribs crack like so many little sticks?

  Damn it all, you fucking pussy! Shove that fucking iron up there! You’re the best there is. You can’t die like this. It’s not you. Gather your forces and do it.

  I grit my teeth, take a massive breath, and try once more to move the weight up. The odds are against me: it has been static for so long that it will take a lot of extra strength to start it moving again.

  My entire body shakes from the effort. I’m not concerned with perfect form. I merely want to raise the weight and place it on the rack.

  Sweat pours off me as ever…so…slowly…the weight moves.

  My arms shake more with each fraction of an inch it advances, the bench wobbling under me from the effort.

  The air around me gets thinner, making it almost impossible to suck in enough to do what I have to do, and the ceiling spins around, completing the total feeling of helplessness.

  But the weight moves up.

  After what seems like an eternity—with every muscle fiber shrieking in agony—I manage to reach lockout.

  Now all I have to do is move the bar backwards a bit and place it on the ra
ck: not as easy with this move as a standard bench press. Ever so carefully, I put it in its place.

  The weight is secure. I have achieved the impossible!

  I lie on the bench, gasping for air, shaking uncontrollably, unable to make sense of anything. My surroundings are totally bizarre: benches, dumbbells, plates, core body balls, and more, all float around me, taunting me, saying they’ll fall and land on me at any second. A spectrum of colors attacks my eyes, the brilliance threatening to blind me.

  The stench of nervous sweat rises to my nostrils; I want to puke, but I’m unable to move from my position, and so I fight the urge, not wanting to gag on my own effluent.